Blame it on the Alcohol
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Alcohol really isn't an excuse for behavior, but sometimes it's fun to lay the blame with liquor. A variety of one-shots about the havoc alcohol can wreak-whether it be fun, sexy, sad, or absurd. Jibbs.
1. Tequila

_A/N: This is a collection of works based on various types of liquor, with an overall spark of inspiration attributed to the song 'Blame it on the Alcohol' by Jamie Foxx-for in the face of my **lack** of eclectic music taste and adherence to {basically} country genre, I do find myself amused by that song. I've predetermined which types of alcohol are being used. _

_The general theme of the fic collection is that each one-shot is a study of what effect certain alcoholic beverages have on our favorite redheaded Director. _

_There will be no regularity in the updating of this fic; I will see to it when the muse allows. _

_Now, to get on with it:_

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><p><strong> Tequila: Makes Her Clothes Fall Off<strong>

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><p>Leroy Jethro Gibbs brooded silently at his desk, glaring sullenly at the whimsical nonsense that was taking place all around him. He wasn't entirely sure why it was necessary to have an NCIS Christmas Party at the office, but evidently he was the only one finding fault with the celebration—which had been garishly decorated and impeccably organized by intrepid lab tech Abby Sciuto.<p>

As Party-Planner-Chief, the excitable Goth was prancing around the party with jingle bells around her neck and reindeer antlers planted perkily on her pigtailed head. She saw to it that everyone, whether on the clock or off the clock, was happy.

Gibbs sat at his desk and fumed silently.

He generally chose to work through Christmas due to the emptiness and peaceful silence that descended upon the agency when most everyone took a few days to relax and enjoy their families and the holiday. This year, his antisocial, Scrooge routine had been blown to smithereens by this little soiree—which he was sure was the idea of a certain _irksome_ redhead who was attempting to make NCIS a more tight-knit agency.

At least that is what her annoyingly prissy, agency-wide e-mail had hinted at last week.

The thought induced Gibbs to scowl again and he glared down at the open files in front of him, returning to recording an account of the shoot-out his team had been involved in yesterday. A swift, calculating glance around the bullpen told him that DiNozzo was gloomily completing his own incident report while casting furtive, jealous glances at those who were off the clock and drinking. Ziva, too, was busy at her desk—unfazed by the Christian festivities, and hardly concerned that she was a little left out.

McGee was snacking on a plate of sugar cookies and sipping on the alcohol-free punch Abby had made for the on-duty agents.

Scattered all over the floor were other agents who had drawn the short straw and were working the Christmas weekend shift, but most of them were enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and lazily working through the sparse work that the agency had this time of year.

Gibbs heard the sound of the Director's laughter and lifted his head, cocking his ear toward the musical, familiar sound. She stood near Abby's festive, Gothic Christmas tree, carrying on an animated conversation with Cynthia and one of the newer probationary recruits. He fixed his glare on her, blaming her love of socializing for the festivities.

She held a glass of punch in her hand, presumably because, as Director, she was technically always on duty and had only allowed herself one glass of Eggnog. The redhead laughed again, and Gibbs furrowed his brow, abandoning his glare for a moment; she was laughing rather loudly.

As suave as she was in social situations, Jenny was typically demure and rather reserved; she claimed it garnered more respect and power than aggressive, bitchy confidence. He narrowed his eyes as he studied her. She pushed her hair back and it tumbled down her back, away from her face; Jenny smiled and took another drink from her glass, her attention drawn away from Cynthia and the agent when Ducky tapped her shoulder.

He couldn't explain it, but Gibbs felt a sneaking suspicion that something was up. He looked across his desk at McGee, who was still obliviously snacking, and then glared for a long time at McGee's cup of punch.

He leaned back, lifting his chin, about to gruffly snap for Tim's attention, when DiNozzo materialized in front of his desk, holding up a thick file. He smirked eagerly, practically trembling with excitement.

"Done, Boss," he said smugly. "Mind if I grab a drink?"

Gibbs looked at the report that DiNozzo had dropped heavily onto his desk and then checked the time. DiNozzo had another hour before he was officially off the clock, but Gibbs figured they could spare him if by some chance a call came in. He sat silently and ominously for a moment, though, just to screw with Tony's emotions, before he finally gave a curt nod.

DiNozzo squeaked, grinned, and strutted off, heading directly for the table full of goodies.

Gibbs glanced at Ziva again and then back at McGee. This time, McGee was looking at him uncertainly, nervousness in his eyes.

"Why are you staring at me?" McGee ventured bravely.

Gibbs didn't answer right away.

Then:

"How's the punch?" he drawled sarcastically.

McGee looked confused. He shrugged hesitantly.

"I haven't had any yet," he answered slowly.

The probationary agent looked at his cup and tilted his head with interest. DiNozzo strutted back into the bullpen, collapsed in his chair, threw his legs up on his desk, and balanced a plate stacked full of food on his knees, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

He raised his own cup of punch.

"I toast to you, McPunch," Tony mocked solemnly, taking a long drink of the reddish-orange concoction. Tony lowered the plastic cup and blinked, breathing out with a whistle. "Damn, that's some strong punch," he remarked, kicking up an eyebrow in suspicious amusement.

Gibbs sat up slightly, frowning. He glanced back to the Christmas tree. Jenny was no longer standing near it; a quick look around told him she was refilling her cup. He noticed, almost by chance, that she had slipped her heels off, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Taste that, McGee," DiNozzo was saying.

Ziva had looked up.

"The punch is non-alcoholic," she said shortly.

McGee had taken his sip. He coughed in surprise.

"No, it isn't," he said in surprise. "Someone's spiked it with," he paused, taking another sip, and made a face.

Gibbs stood up his eyes following Jenny as she caught sight of him watching her and sauntered over, giving him a sultry sort of warning look. He was beginning to think the punch was spiked with—

"Gibbs," Jenny greeted in her throaty voice, perching on the edge of his desk. She set down her glass and unbuttoned her sweater, slipping it off and handing it to him briskly, adjusting the crisp oxford she had on underneath the cardigan. "Keep track of that, will you?"

—_tequila_.

It was the only explanation.

Alcohol could effortlessly explain the rising volume of Jenny's laughter and conversation, but only tequila could explain why her shoes had come off, and why her sweater was now coming off and—well, Gibbs didn't plan on being cruel enough to let her remain in public while he waited to see what would come off next.

"Jesus, this is tequila," McGee declared, befuddled. "Abby!" he yelped, pushing his glass away.

Gibbs heard a giggle, but ignored the commotion her drink-spiking capers were causing among his team. He came around his desk, laying Jenny's sweater over his keyboard, and turned his back to the team, lifting a brow at Jenny.

"How much punch have you had?" he asked in a low voice.

Her lips twitched up at the corners and she lifted her eyes, shaking her head a little. She ran her hand through her hair and pushed it back again, succeeding in making it look entrancingly messy.

"A couple of cups," she said breezily. "Try it, Jethro, Abby is some sort of punch-goddess," she said, and then giggled. "It's better than the eggnog. I think it has ginger ale in it. It's hot in here."

"Jen, it's got _tequila_ in it," he said, amusement creeping into his voice.

She burst out laughing, tilting her head back. She almost fell onto his desk, and succeeding in knocking over a cup of pencils and pushing his stapler to the floor. The team looked over, their attention caught. Gibbs subtly grabbed her arm to steady her and raised an eyebrow again.

"Don't be ridiculous," she admonished, waving her hand at him flippantly. "I think I would be aware of it if I were drinking tequila," she scoffed, giving him a haughty look. She pushed her hair back again and unbuttoned the top two clasps of her oxford. "It's hot in here," she said again, her eyes bright.

She smiled at him fetchingly.

"Jen," he said quietly, speaking through clenched teeth. "You need to go to the ladies' room," he advised her. "Splash water on your face."

She leaned in closer.

"Why are you whispering?" she asked in the same hushed tone. She placed her palm on his neck and her fingers stroked the base of his hairline; the touch sent desirable chills down his spine. She smiled at him again.

He pushed her hand away gently.

"Jen, remember that brothel in Prague?" Gibbs asked slyly, tilting his head threateningly.

Her eyes widened a little and she gave him a distasteful look. She frowned and glanced at the glass of punch she had placed on his desk. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and then picked up the glass. She pointed at him and nodded confidently.

"You know what, Jethro, I think you're right," she said, her words just a _little_ slurred. "Ladies' room."

He looked at her skeptically.

"Yeah," he snorted, taking her arm. "C'mon," he said authoritatively, marching her out of the bullpen. He glanced behind him, noting that his team's attention had been diverted by a triumphant Abby taking a bow for secretly spiking the punch.

Cynthia was just entering the ladies' room as Gibbs approached, so he abruptly changed direction and escorted Jenny into the men's room. It was quiet and empty and much more secluded than the ladies', as women tended to gather and gossip in their bathrooms.

Gibbs turned to make sure the door was shut, and when he turned back around, Jenny was standing right in front of him, her eyes alert and slightly mischievous, her hair loose and tangled by her own fingers, and the top of her oxford temptingly unbuttoned. He smirked, shaking his head, and swore to himself this was not going to happen.

He took her shoulders and walked her backwards, slapping his palm on the counter.

"Sit," he ordered.

She lifted both eyebrows suggestively and hopped up on the counter, her skirt riding up her thighs. She leaned back a little, arching her back, and looked at him surreptitiously through her eyelashes. She reached up and unbuttoned the rest of her oxford.

"It's even hotter in here," she whined, shrugging her shoulder out of the long-sleeved shirt. She pouted her lips and reached out to tug him towards her a little, leaning forward. Her hair fell over her shoulders and brushed his cheek. "If there really is tequila in the punch I can get naked real fast," she murmured suggestively.

He gently detached her hand and pushed her to sit back.

"I know," he muttered with a smirk. "I remember Prague, too," he snorted, shaking his head at the thought of his first experience with Jenny and tequila. The agave, Mexican liquor had some sort of inexplicable effect on Jenny—it immediately turned her into a stripper if she consumed too much too quickly.

Jenny giggled and pulled her leg up, resting her foot on the edge of the counter and giving him a straight view up her skirt. She pulled her skirt down and fingered the edge of her thigh-high stockings, tilting her head.

She reached out for him again, her hand pressing against his neck and shoulder.

"Mmm," she murmured huskily. "We had a _good_ night in Prague."

Once again, he extracted himself. He reached for the sink and turned the water on cold, biting back a smug grin and shaking his head slightly.

"Jen, you're drunk," he informed her. "We're at work."

"We were at work in Prague," she retorted sassily. She gripped the counter and pulled on it roughly. "This is pretty sturdy," she said to him brazenly.

"Yeah," he humored her. "We figured that out six years ago," he reminded her, perfectly willing to play the nostalgia game if it would get her to cooperate. Jenny burst into laughter, her eyes widening. She nodded, parting her lips tantalizingly and wetting them with her tongue.

She tilted her head back and shook her hear back, reaching for her earring. She unclasped it and fumbled it, dropping it right into her cup of tequila-sodden punch—she gasped and, in her attempt to recover the earring, knocked her drink and the piece of jewelry into the sink where the running water forced it all down the drain.

"Oh, no!" Jenny cried, covering her mouth. She pouted.

"Dammit, Jen," swore Gibbs good-naturedly. He looked at her and shook his head. "How many pairs are you going to lose to Patron?"

She fiddled with the lone earring left.

"You gave me these," she pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

"I'll buy you another pair," he placated absently, pointing to the cold water. "Splash your face, Jen, try to sober it up a little."

He was being good. He was trying to save her some embarrassment, save some face. He was even resisting the urge he had to respond to her intoxicated attempts to seduce him, as difficult as it was to turn her down.

The redhead was suddenly outraged.

"I am _not_ splashing water on my face," she protested indignantly. "Oh, Jethro, I dropped my earring down the sink," she lamented, bowing her head.

She seemed to suddenly notice that her stocking was exposed and looked at it in fascination. Then in one fell swoop she slid the nylon off her leg and threw it at him. She let out a relieved breath, and went for the other leg.

"No," Gibbs barked sharply, stepping in between her legs to prevent her. She shrieked and then covered her mouth, eyes wide, and she giggled into her palm. He grabbed her foot and fumbled with the stocking she'd removed, trying to maneuver it back on. "Jen, keep your damn clothes on," he growled.

She moved closer to him and leaned forward, her lips close to his hear.

"I never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth," she hissed aggressively, reaching out to steady herself using his shoulders. She slid her hand down his chest towards his waist and he swallowed hard, steeling himself to fight her off.

"Jethro," she snapped playfully. "Stop it," she entreated, squirming and gripping his belt. "Jethro, it's hot, let me take them off."

He was determined to get her stocking back _on_ her. He got her leg in a sort of chokehold and pulled her towards him. She laughed in surprise and wrapped her free leg around his waist, wriggling her toes a little.

Gibbs set his jaw and moved his hand up her leg, pressing his palm against her inner thigh to distract her. She threw her head back and bit her lip, her heel curling into his back anxiously, and just when he thought he'd gotten her foot into the nylon, the men's room door flew open, his arm jerked in surprise, and Jenny escaped.

Gibbs turned his head toward the door with a murderous glare. DiNozzo looked back at him, his eyes wide as saucers and his mouth hanging open. Gibbs grit his teeth and swore under his breath; he knew exactly what DiNozzo was seeing: the Director, intoxicated, in a state of semi-undress, with her long legs wrapped around his boss's waist in the men's restroom.

It wasn't what it looked like, but DiNozzo was never going to believe it.

Gibbs glared at DiNozzo in a tense, silent standoff, daring his senior agent to make a smart-ass remark. For once in his skirt chasing life, Tony seemed at a loss for what was appropriate in the situation and backed up a little.

It didn't last long; DiNozzo unwittingly cracked his characteristic, suggestive grin.

Jenny looked up at DiNozzo, biting her lip provocatively. She let her legs slide off of Gibbs a little, pulling it together a little when she sort of half-realized what was going on. She looked at the leg with no nylon, and then at the one that was still wearing it's pristine stocking, and she pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes at Tony.

His grin faded a little, but he was clearly fighting back a smirk.

"Er," he muttered quickly. "I didn't see anything?" he tried slyly.

"You're damn right you didn't," snapped Gibbs, giving DiNozzo a menacing glare. "She broke a heel," he threw out, a weak excuse that his tone made clear was going to be believed whether Tony wanted to or not.

DiNozzo held up his hands and backed up slowly.

"Broken heel," he reported. "The punch was spiked, Director, we can blame the tequila," he said smugly, disappearing before Gibbs had time to storm over and head-slap him into the next dimension.

The door slammed, and Gibbs turned to Jenny in frustration, still holding her wrinkled stocking. She bit her lip, managing to look contrite, innocent, and wicked all at the same time. She lifted her brows.

"Jethro," she said matter-of-factly. "If I'm being _completely_ honest with myself, I think I might be drunk."

"You _think_?" he retorted sharply, glaring at her.

She closed her green eyes and nodded primly. Her lashes fluttered and she opened them again, looking at him seriously.

"I think you should take me home."

"Yeah, I think so," he agreed, disgruntled. He raised his eyebrows and held out his hand.

She hopped down from the counter, feet bare, shirt un-tucked and unbuttoned, hair a mess, wearing only one earring, and missing her sweater. She stumbled into him and blinked, apparently confused by how she had gotten so intoxicated on the seemingly innocent punch.

She glanced up at him salaciously through her eyelashes and pursed her lips, arching an eyebrow impishly.

"Let's have an adult sleepover," she whispered, a soft giggle escaping her lips before she even finished the sentence.

"Not a good idea, Jen," he said half-heartedly.

She gave him a smug look.

"Wrong; it's a damn good idea, Jethro," she said silkily. "We can blame the alcohol."

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><p>Her head was aching steadily and bluntly when she woke up the next morning, momentarily unaware of where she was. She was sleeping on her stomach with her face in the pillows and her arms above her head; she was vaguely cold and <em>that<em>, she discovered as she lifted her head and looked around a little, was due to her being very _naked_.

She pushed her hair away from her eyes, nose and mouth, breathing in and frowning slightly.

"Jesus, I smell like a Kenny Chesney song," she mumbled, tequila filling her nostrils.

She heard a snort of amusement.

Subconsciously, she reached up swiftly and felt her ears. She only had one earring in, and the discovery coaxed a frown to her lips. She blinked, rubbed one eye gently, grimaced, and narrowed her eyes at the man sprawled on his back next to her.

It was he who had laughed.

Rudely, she reached out and punched his side.

His skin jumped and he looked down at her, glaring. He'd obviously been awake; there was no trace of sleep in his eyes. She met his annoyed gaze firmly and puckered her lips, pushing herself up a little more.

"What the hell are you doing here, Jethro?" she asked indignantly.

"Taking advantage of you," he answered bluntly, his eyes roaming over her. She followed his wandering, appreciative gaze and shifted onto her side, blinking, racking her brain for any recollection of what had gone down. A rush of dizzying sensory memories slammed into her and she closed her eyes.

Apparently Jethro had; and then she had. And then Jethro again.

She bit her lip, shaking her head a little, overwhelmed for a moment. She let out a shaky breath.

"…There was tequila in the punch?" she ventured slowly, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered, smug.

She groaned softly and reached up, cradling her head. She sighed and tilted her head back, laying down on her back and staring, resigned, at the ceiling. She looked over at him, wetting her lips.

"Was it good for me?" she asked dryly.

He rolled onto his side and slid an arm around her waist burying his nose and lips in her neck and breathing in her faded tequila, sandalwood, and afterglow scent. He nodded arrogantly.

"Four times," he told her.

She laughed a little, the sound humming in her throat and against his lips. She covered her eyes and groaned again; exasperated with events, which, she was sure, had involved some degree of her systematically removing articles of her clothing.

"Oh," she bitched, wrinkling her nose. "What have I done?"

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><p> *Credit, of course, to Joe Nichol's "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off"<p>

-Alexandra


	2. Wine

_a/n: lo and behold, i've finally gotten around to posting something to this. MATURE RATING WARNING! _

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><p><strong>Wine: Makes Her Feel Sexy<strong>

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><p>He had agreed to accompany her as her date to this godforsaken charity banquet due to her tempting little suggestion that she would drink a few too many glasses of wine, which implied he might get lucky afterwards. It was a black tie dinner and the Director of NCIS was a woman who held her liquor impeccably well, but he knew from personal experience that wines were as much an aphrodisiac to her as moonlight on the Seine and since they weren't in Paris—well.<p>

Wine made her feel seductive and sexy and if her hand resting dangerously high on his thigh under the table was any indication, the third glass was doing the tipsy trick. He leaned back in his stiff white seat, one arm resting lazily on the table, his other positioned possessively around the back of her chair.

She was in the habit of selecting colleagues to escort her to events like these—Ducky, McGee, Balboa—in addition to her security detail, so as to demure the curious away from her personal life and provide herself with safe, platonic conversation. He had stood in for her a fair few times, but she knew he hated it and usually never asked. This time, he was experiencing a lot less hatred and a lot more smug hope. His hands brushed her shoulders subtly every so often, reminding her that he was there. She smiled into her wine goblet when he did so.

She was clearly bored by the blowhard political speaker droning away from the pulpit in the Watergate Hotel's elegant ballroom, though she made a spectacular show of looking enthralled.

Her hand pressed into his thigh through the smooth black material of his suit and she kneaded her fingers in a light, catlike way. He cleared his throat and shifted, but said nothing; he liked it.

He let his gaze wander over her, drinking in for the hundredth time the sight of her in her lithe, dusty green gown. It bared one of her shoulders and tastefully covered the other, while an open gash of material across her chest revealed a fashionably taunting strip of white skin. The slit in the side crept up near her hip, and the way she crossed her legs just _so_ had it falling so he could see a considerable amount of thigh. He contented himself with looking, and imagining how good those thighs would feel around his waist later.

She tipped the clear crystal glass to her lips again, the red smear of lipstick growing darker each time she took a sip. She lifted her chin, and her hair fell back over her shoulders. He gently tugged on it playfully and she turned in her seat, rolling her eyes subtly at the man speaking.

She tapped the edge of the glass with a manicured nail and met his eyes mildly, flicking her gaze down to his lips. Her green eyes were relaxed and tinted with slight wickedness, and now she was moving her hand over his thigh a little more suggestively, her fingers sliding higher and—

He removed his hand from her chair and slipped his fingers into hers casually, entangling their palms and holding her hand safely on his knee. He shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes, and she pursed her lips. She twitched her foot, squeezing her crossed legs together and lowering her lashes.

The speech was over, and the social buzz was beginning again. He leaned forward, and she stroked her thumb over his knuckles.

"You going to ask me to dance?" she asked flirtatiously, taking a sweet sip of the wine.

He pulled her hand closer to his stomach and smirked, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

"No," he answered pointedly.

Her eyes fell to his lap and she smirked right back, leaning closer. She didn't seem to mind that her closeness might indicate intimacy to her political counterparts; she moved the napkin he'd had over his other knee and covered his arousal. Her wine glass lingered close to her lips. She moved her thumb over his knuckles again, slower this time, her nail tracing the lines in his skin.

"I did promise you I would be generous with my wine," she said quietly.

He looked at her wryly, raising a brow. Her lips parted seductively.

"What are you thinking about, Jethro?" His name seemed to melt off her lips, coated in blush White Zinfandel.

"Back seat of your town car," he answered gruffly. Her brow arched prettily.

"What am I to expect in the back seat of my town car?"

He lifted his chin in an arrogant gesture that was all his own and reached over with his free hand to gently steal her wine glass from her, and savor a sip.

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><p>She did not utilize her seatbelt in the broad back seat of the car and she leaned on the seat at an angle, her head cradled in her palm as she looked at him.<p>

"Peterson, put up the partition, will you?" she requested silkily, her hand kneading his thigh again. Her agent complied without a word and Gibbs leaned over, his lips brushing hers slowly.

She tilted her head back and opened her mouth, her tongue sweeping along his lower lip lazily. She still tasted like dry, soft blush wine; her tongue and lips crackled with the acidic fruit punch hint of White Zin. He deepened the kiss, pushing her back until her head rested against the back of the seat. She moaned quietly, her lashes brushing his face.

He slipped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her towards him, pulling her warm, pliable body against his. He ran his hand over the cottony silk of her evening gown, letting the expensive material sift through his fingers as he drew it up her long legs, adjusting the slit so it fell conveniently. His palm slid up her thigh and his hands pressed into her shoulder, pulling her closer. He moved his lips from her mouth to her throat, nudging her jaw with his nose.

"Your security detail isn't stupid," he growled in a low voice, his hand still lingering teasingly on the inside of her thigh.

Her breath hitched in her throat. He felt her throat move as she swallowed and she moved her hand down his chest, fingering the buttons on his starched shirt. Her fingers hooked into his belt.

"Wine," she reminded him. She shook her head to indicate she hadn't a care about it and lowered her head, her lips moving against his insistently. "Touch me."

His hand moved under the remaining material of her gown and found her panties. She was wet and warm and he made a sound of approval somewhere deep in his throat. The drawn out assault she was performing on his mouth was mind numbing, and he took his time between her legs, his fingertips exploring the panties as he imagined what they looked like. Black, no doubt, and nothing more than a thin scrap of lace in a sheer floral pattern. He pushed his hand against her and then drew the edge of the panties aside, seeking more.

She gasped and broke the kiss, biting her lower lip. He felt her teeth against the corner of his mouth and smirked, tightening his hold around her shoulders. She lowered her hand from her head and clutched his neck, her nose resting against his cheek. It was a tangled embrace; he curved his finger and drew it over her lightly and she whimpered.

The wine swirled in her head, mixing in with the heady haze of desire.

She liked nothing more than his hands when she was this lightly buzzed on fine wine; the utterly fantastic thing about sleeping with Jethro was his unparalleled ability to stroke her just right without any fleeting moment of doubt. She was fairly sure one of his infamous ex-wives had whipped out an anatomical chart and shown him exactly where a woman's clitoris was located, because he had always been mind-blowingly, deliciously familiar with hers.

He was better with his hands than any man she'd ever been with.

He wedged his feet in between hers and shoved her knee out a little, pressing his thumb against her hard and kneading two fingers against her. She bit her lip, compressed her lips, and then moaned quietly, her eyes sliding shut. Wine always made her want it slow and easy and incinerating; there was sophistication in a practiced climax that matched the elegance of fermented grapes.

His teeth grazed her jaw and he teased her for a moment, thrusting two fingers inside her and removing them rapidly. She cried out and he pulled her head into his chest, laughing quietly. His lips brushed the top of her head and she dug her nails into his neck, breathing a little hard against him. Her hand yanked at his belt and she struggled to tilt her head back, puckered lips begging for another kiss.

He gave it to her, moving his fingers inside her again, this time in a come hither motion, and she swore he was finding some secret spot only he had every known about, because she felt hot and tense all over. Her abdomen clenched and she panted against his lips.

"Gibbs," she moaned hoarsely. "Jethro, oh," her voice jumped an octave, and a decibel. "God."

"_Shh_," he muttered seriously, stubbornly continuing his ministrations. She swallowed and gripped the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling hard and then moving her hand into her own hair.

He thrust his fingers a few hard times, his thumb hitting perfectly against her with each jerk of his hand, and she lowered her head to his shoulder, biting desperately into his suit. He slowed a moment, frustrating her, and she twisted into him, arching her hips in a silent plea. He toyed with her lightly, then, and pushed another finger inside her. She sucked in her breath, her stomach tightening again.

He ran his hand through her hair.

"Jesus, you're wet," he growled. "_Christ_, Jen."

She moaned quietly. Her lips moved against his neck, kissing him passionately, marking him. Her teeth bit into his skin and she murmured to him, begging him to get her off. Her lips were _shaking_. He pushed his fingers in up to the knuckle and she shuttered, a cry catching in her throat and dying between closed lips. Her mouth opened and she gasped again, her jaw clenching.

He turned his wrist, thrusting his thumb against her and his fingers hard into her, and she breathed out harshly, her shoulders shuddering.

"I'm coming," she mumbled against his throat, her breath dragging through her lips in soft, hard gasps.

She fared well at trapping her moans and cries in the back of her throat. He moved his fingers with the clench of her muscles, pushing against the resistance of her body, fucking her with his fingers to the apex of her climax. He felt rather than heard her mumble his name against his neck and he pulled her head back by the hair, kissing her again, searching the lush corners of her mouth for more tastes of that intoxicating wine.

The car jolted to a stop and he pulled his hand back abruptly, eliciting a soft cry of startled discomfort from her. He apologized with a soothing stroke of his hand over her hair and helped her right her dress before Peterson opened the door and ushered them out.

Jenny stumbled and caught Gibbs' arm, her mess of red hair falling from its elegant up do and tumbling over her shoulder. He steadied her with a hand on her back and Peterson gave them an expressionless look. Gibbs gruffly told him he'd see the Director in, and she pushed her hair out of her face with a sated look, her lashes fluttering coyly.

Gibbs led her up the steps of her brownstone, and they were barely in the door when he shut it, locked it, and pushed her against it. He raked his eyes hungrily over her tousled hair and took in the flushed, heated look in her hot green eyes. He didn't bother to fumble to turn a light on before he was pulling her dress up again.

She removed his belt with surprising dexterity for someone woozy with wine and lust, and started to sink to her knees. He caught her at the elbows and spun her away from him, bending her down to the table in the hall and hiking her dress up. He bunched it into a wrinkled knot on her back, slid her wet panties off her and down to the floor, unzipped and thrust inside her with a satisfied groan.

She rested her forehead on the table, running her hands through her hair tightly and tangling red strands around her fingers. Sensitive and sanguine, she let him slam into her, finally able to cry out as loud as she wanted to. She felt languid and coquettish and sizzling all at once. She was surprised when he pulled out and turned her around.

She lunged forward and kissed him, and he lifted her up on the table and ran his hands over her bare thighs, pulling her legs around him and burying himself back inside her. His lips were on hers the whole time he moved, breathing through her, a long, drawn out kiss that made her light headed until he broke it with a groan to push his forehead hard against hers and shudder against her, mumbling her name appreciatively.

Her body ached for him again and he leaned against her, breathing harshly. She ran her hands over his neck and shoulders, massaging his skin in a soothing, lightly sexy way, reminiscent of long hot nights in Marseille. He moved his hands up her thighs and wrapped is arm around her, hugging her against his chest.

She wasn't the only one who felt a little more intimate, and a little sexier, when wine was in the glass and uninterrupted nights were—quite literally—on the table.

She snuggled into him, blithely unperturbed by the eccentricity of their position, and rested her head on his shoulder, her mind already running wild with fantasies of what he could make her feel again if she let him recover for fifteen minutes.

"I have a bottle of _Sauvignon blanc_ in the study," she murmured huskily.

He nodded slowly.

"Bring it to bed," he growled.

* * *

><p><em>-Alexandra<em>


End file.
